


Warm Bodies

by adventuresofmeghatron



Series: Reclamations [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Also they are all such dorks, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Porn with So Many Feelings, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, everyone is horny and depressed, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuresofmeghatron/pseuds/adventuresofmeghatron
Summary: One close encounter leads to another.
Relationships: Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Reclamations [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944889
Comments: 17
Kudos: 18





	Warm Bodies

**Author's Note:**

> Consensual sexual activities between adults lies ahead.

____________________________

“When you come undone

I'll carry your chains

So you can feel freedom

And a little less pain

And if the poison

Burns in your blood

I'll drink the venom

Out of the cut.”

- _ New Fears _ , Lights

____________________________  
  


“It’s f--”

“ _ Don’t _ say it's fine,” MacCready fumes.

“It’s  f ucking stupid that _you’re_ mad right now!” Nat snaps.

It’s not fine, but it’s not the answer MacCready wants to hear, either.

“You could’ve--” Mac starts, then grunts. His brow pinches and he tries again. “You almost--”

“But I didn’t. Bobby, we  _ didn’t. _ ” 

Natasha cuts into the path MacCready’s burning in the rug with his pacing. Deacon watches MacCready’s face flex in between anger and anguish and other things he doesn’t feel like feeling. They stand off in front of the fireplace, arms crossed, stormy blue eyes glaring down narrowed brown. Eventually, it’s Nat who concedes, but only by a few feet. Enough to creep closer and frame MacCready’s face in her hands. Deacon follows the soothing pass of her palms down MacCready’s neck until they come to rest against his chest. 

“We _ didn’t _ ,” she murmurs gently. 

MacCready blinks, quickly, but he says nothing as he tucks her to his collarbone. Tangling a hand through her hair, he huffs a tired sigh. His chin sets restlessly on the top of her head. She’s right, after all. They didn’t. 

They almost did. 

Deacon should say something. Get something. Water. Or something stiffer. Some ice for the purplish bloom starting on Nat’s shoulder. Move. Blink. Anything. But he clings to the arm of the couch like it’s the arm of an old friend. And he can’t find it in him to do a damn thing besides stare at those two perfect, stupid  _ stupid _ people in front of him.

Behind them, a still life plays out in long shadows on the mantle. Old polaroids with faces Deacon’s learned the names of. Knick knacks and Grognaks and souvenirs from misadventures. A reflection of the two people twined together underneath the spread. And sprawled among them, a pair of sunglasses. A ceramic cactus Deacon picked up and pocketed for no reason that he can conjure while looking at it now. The shadows stretch and loom steadily higher on the wall, cast there by dying daylight. 

Deacon swallows. His throat is sandpaper. They don’t make any sense on their own, those disparate pieces. Wouldn’t make any sense, if that’s all that was leftover of them. No one would know, just by looking at smattering of plastic playthings, that MacCready can’t help but hum along when the radio’s on. And when he’s caught, he turns this perfect, puzzled pink. No one would know by looking at old pictures that Nat captured that same pink, forced life back into a thing near-decayed, in the camellias out back. Everything in that garden would be dead in days if she was.

The thought crawls over him sure as the shadows crawl to the ceiling. Spindly, sinister. It sinks teeth in. Even as he sees them there, whole and holding each other, he can’t unsee what he almost saw. What he thought he saw.

It’s something Deacon’s witnessed a dozen times by now, a hundred times, even. Every bullet that clipped concrete beneath Old North Church, every shattered splinter could’ve been MacCready or Natasha. Blown to pieces before his eyes, before the two of them became pieces of Deacon, too. 

Before Bobby’s hands fisted in Deacon’s t-shirt and he kissed him urgently, desperately, like he was afraid of what would happen if they didn’t. It’s the way Mac kisses Natasha now, with his fingers lost in her hair and that wrinkle in his brow still worrying over an almost that didn’t happen. 

And all those other brushes with death were before Nat broke away from Deacon only for enough space to breathe his name next to words he never thought he’d hear again. Not like  _ that _ . Three words she says again now with the gentle brush of her nose against MacCready’s.

Before Deacon committed the extremely reckless and inevitable oath of ‘I love you two, too.’ Back then, it was MacCready and Whisper he would’ve lost and barely known. Now it’s Bobby and Nat. Sassafras and Spitfire. 

It should’ve been a routine run. 

Preston tapped them to clear out the ferals infesting some old manufacturing plant. No clue what they made there -- something with metal. Nat didn’t know, either. Might’ve been more ancient than her. Even the name and logo were lost to time. Looked like whatever company owned place was iced before she’d been. 

The snaking conveyor belt winding its way high above the factory floor wheezed rust when Mac stepped on it. Better view. Better shot. Better judgment to the wind.  _ Be careful, _ Deacon told him. What a piece of nothing advice. Mac brushed him off and brushed his ass on his way by. 

It went well, for a while. Picking them off one at a time, a full two stories from the ground. Until it didn’t.

Out of nowhere, the wheeze of the assembly line holding MacCready aloft became a groan, and then a whine, and finally, a peeling wail of eroded metal collapsing underneath him.

One moment, Natasha was next to Deacon. The next, she was a blur of adrenaline, sprinting for MacCready. Wrenching him back from where he dangled, only empty air beneath his feet. She reeled him to solid ground, fumbling her own footing. She could’ve...she  _ would’ve,  _ If Mac hadn’t snagged her by her jacket in the nick of time. They both would’ve, if they’d stood there a second longer.

Mac moved, when it mattered. Natasha  _ moved _ . And Deacon...

Deacon needs to sit down. Just for a minute to, maybe, breathe. Breathing’s a good idea. He starts a count in his head while he studies the splotchy stain by his feet where MacCready spilled coffee a few weeks back. Deacon’s eyes drift to the blood flecked over his shoelaces, deep and dark like Nat’s favorite wine. He grips the armrest tighter.

Mac swallows once, and then again. It doesn’t take. His face twists when he speaks, like he’s talking past a knife. “I just don’t get why you had to--”

“What if it was me or Deacon?” Natasha parries, arms crossed. Her fingers fold over the skin above her elbows. While Deacon watches, her knuckles flex and sink in. 

“Don’t try to flip this!” MacCready raises his voice.

“Don’t be a hypocrite!”

“So damn stubborn.”

“Case in point,” she snips, but it comes out frail.

MacCready falters mid-step, searching for something Nat’s stowed away behind the steely set of her jaw. His hands half-lift towards her, as if to stop her knuckles from pinching the skin of her arms pink. MacCready sighs like a spew of steam. His hands fall, empty, back to his sides. Natasha coils in on herself tighter, toeing at the dead ashes leaking from the hearth.

They’ll burn themselves out, if Deacon lets them. Pass barbs back and forth until the space between their bodies thins to nothing. Mac will stop Nat’s fidgeting fingers from plucking at her own skin. Nat will stop Mac’s residual grumbles with a look that turns sour words and legs alike to jelly.

Yeah, he could wait. Sit back. Do nothing. Deacon’s been really stellar at that lately. What’s the worst that could happen? 

No, no more waiting.    
  
“At least she did something.”

MacCready blinks, and those furrows in his forehead deepen to canyons. Nat sucks a little breath in. It sounds like a scrape. Her fingers unfurl.

“I should’ve,” Deacon insists, clearing the catch in his throat. “I should’ve done something.”

“But you could’ve--” MacCready’s voice splinters when he speaks, “....right in front of me. You think I want to see that again?”

Deacon answers quietly, speaking to the carpet and the blood spatters over his shoes. “You think I want to  _ live _ through it again?” 

Something between a choke and a cry muffles beneath the heel of Natasha’s palm when she presses it against her mouth. Deacon _ feels _ it. It’s the shudder in his chest on his next breath.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” MacCready spits each word out like it’s poison. He steps towards the couch and Deacon.

Deacon opens his mouth to find his words have been stolen. Held at knifepoint by this feeling that slices just as keen. Just like when he stood there, motionless,  _ useless _ before them.  _ Them.  _

“Bobby,” Natasha says softly to the ash pile, “from where we were standing, it looked like...like you---”

“Like you  _ both  _ were,” Deacon says hoarsely. A shadow seeps over him. MacCready’s mud-scuffed boots come toe-to-toe with Deacon’s sneakers. Deacon holds his breath hostage.

Coarse but careful thumbs graze against Deacon’s cheeks and drag the frames from behind his ears. It’s gentle, dainty even. MacCready pulls the shades free. He sets them down on the coffee table behind him. 

For a bare moment, MacCready lays his eyes on him and Deacon dares to glance upwards. Something in his chest twists and comes undone. The air flees his lungs.

Rougher comes the next touch. Calloused, familiar hands that tilt his jaw and curl against the back of his neck. Deacon doesn’t mean to make that wounded sound. He doesn’t mean to reach for MacCready’s scarf either. But he does it instinctually, without thinking, without blinking. 

Deacon’s fingers fist in the fabric, feeling the pulse throbbing underneath in MacCready’s throat. For a moment, he’s trapped by those eyes and the lost way they’re looking at him. Waiting. Pleading. 

No.  _ Fuck _ waiting. 

Deacon tugs on the scarf and savors the split second of surprise shooting across MacCready’s face before their lips finally crash together.

MacCready sprawls over him. Stubble scrapes Deacon’s jaw. Their noses bump and then brush past each other in their haste. It sprouts a dull ache for a moment, maybe, before it’s forgotten. Forgotten, because MacCready shifts and now his knees bind Deacon to the couch. Forgotten, because MacCready grasps Deacon tighter and he angles just so. Now every little ache is lost to the heat of MacCready’s mouth moving on his.

Deacon pulls off the scarf, tossing it somewhere unseen. His hands smooth down the trail of buttons on MacCready’s shirt to feel the flex of muscle beneath, lingering fondly on the crease of his hips. A puff of breath billows between them, and a wayward snicker. It comes with a titled smirk that tastes smoky like the vice they all share. MacCready teeths at the corner of Deacon’s mouth, drawing out a shaky sigh while his hips roll against Deacon’s palms and dig him deeper into the couch. 

Good. He wants to be buried, right here. Beneath MacCready’s frayed leather belts grating against his ribs. Under the band of .308s circling MacCready’s thigh and biting into Deacon’s. At the behest of a man who loves with abandon and parts, panting, from Deacon long enough to abandon his duster to the floor.

With him. With her. With both of them. 

Someday, it won’t be almost. Someday, it’ll be over and he’ll be pieces of pieces or pieces in the ground. But today, here, now, MacCready’s hands fly to free the buttons of his shirt. Deacon’s hands slide over the skin that slips into view. MacCready shivers, a soft hiss seeping from between his teeth as the chill of Deacon’s fingers traces the contours of his chest. Following the familiar fault lines of old scars, they drift lower. Deacon frees fabric from MacCready’s waistband, and savors the sight of that body, flushed and warm, and grinding against him. Flushed and warm and in his hands. 

MacCready slicks his tongue across Deacon’s lower lip.

_ Fuck _ , that’s good. 

The heady rush leaves his thoughts hazy. It’s good, it’s good, it’s  _ so _ good. And it can be better. That’s a secret between the three of them and the twist of the sheets and the bend in the mattress. The sweetest secret he’s ever known. The only thing with a hope of stopping him from thinking about the worst thing he’s almost known. They need to be there, on that bed. Right now.

He pushes MacCready back slightly, lips parted and puffy. “Nat, sweetheart--”

“I’m right here,” she mumbles quietly to her toes. MacCready slumps back to the cushion beside him, and Nat slips into view. She’s still gripping at her sides like it’s all she has to hold onto, still studying the ground between her feet, shy and sheepish. Her eyes linger on the ash pile. The burn of ‘almost’ still on her face. Almost over. Almost dust.

Well, how about none of that. 

She could be holding them, instead. They should be holding her. God, does he want to. They should never leave that damn bedroom. 

There’s a strong-willed woman underneath those clutching arms and forlorn furrows.  _ She’s  _ not so quiet. Time to tease her out into the open. Deacon has a few favored methods as to how.

Mac is of a like mind. “Songbird,” he says, letting the word roll like he’s savoring the sound, “get over here. I’m not done with you.” He licks his lips. “Haven’t even started, really.”

That earns an eye roll. She saunters over, not surprised by far. Not disappointed, either. Not if that lip-biting smile is any indicator. 

Her fingers trade the vice grip on her arms for Deacon’s outstretched hands. MacCready slides to make room, and Deacon pulls her down to his lap so that her back rests against his chest.

Fingers threaded together, Deacon guides their arms down and back, easing the strain locked in her neck and shoulders. He noses past the wayward waves of hair hiding her ear, and sinks his lips against the skin just behind. “Hey, there.”   
  
“Hey,” she says, mouse-like. 

“I want to make you feel better. Thinking Bobby wants that, too.” Deacon sighs, watching his breath raise shivers on her neck. “Thinking, maybe we could just skip the rest of the words-like-bullets routine and get to the inevitable end, here.  _ If  _ that’s okay with you. Could even reschedule the angry part if you’re not about canceling.”

She considers for a moment, gliding their joined hands down Deacon’s thigh to his knee. Deacon swallows, trying to think very,  _ very _ hard about anything but how half-hard he already is. Between Mac’s mouth and Nat’s ass, there’s not much hope for it. But, maybe this isn’t what she needs. Maybe--

“Touch me.”

Oh, thank God.   
  
The whispers on her neck turn to kisses crawling down to her collarbone, to teeth nipping just enough to draw her breath sharp, to Deacon’s tongue soothing the fresh redness blooming on her skin.   
  
Natasha leans her neck open to him, leaning into long, languid kisses with MacCready. Deacon unwinds from her fingers, slipping beneath the hiked up hem of her shirt, fanning over ribs and lithe muscle, teasing her skin awake under feathery, faint touches. Beneath their attentions, her body eases back and her legs gradually part. It’s instinct and it’s memory when Deacon’s hips roll forward. It stokes a low, muted murmur in her throat, and a groan of approval from MacCready.

They did that, once, right here. Just like that. Now, it’s just denim rubbing rough on denim. But it sates something of that fire licking over his insides, just to have the shape of her pressed close, almost close enough. It’s enough, for now, to know that she can feel the shape of him, too, against the curve of her ass.

Deacon’s wandering hands slope over other curves, rubbing over the fabric of her bra, and squeezing just hard enough, the way she likes. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” she breathes.

Deacon smirks against her ear. “There she is.”

There’s a spitfire sizzle in her eyes and an arch in her brow when she shifts around to face him. “This where you wanted me?” 

“No,” MacCready says pointendly. “This isn’t bed.”

“Almost,” Deacon counters gently. His thumb smooths over the supple bend of her lips.

Natasha’s face softens. “Is that what you need?”

Deacon’s hand comes to cradle the side of her face, the edge of her jaw that’s scarred from a fight he wasn’t a part of. Not that it would’ve made a difference, anyway, if today is any indicator. Murky thoughts crowd in on the heat simmering between the three of them.

Her palm is warm where it reaches up to hold his, holding her. She leans in fondly, eyes flickering down his face. There’s a ripple of worry pinching in her forehead in spite of the soothing way she says his name. Like she’s throwing down a lifeline. Something to have and to hold and to heave himself up off this cliff he’s staring down. “Dee?” 

“I need you,” he murmurs back, quietly. “Both of you.”

“You got us,” she says, a promise sealed when she leans forward. 

Natasha takes his breath and his festering fears, drowning them in a kiss that’s deep and leaves shockwave shivers in its wake. It’s desperate in its own right. He can taste it in the sultry hum that passes from her to him. Feel it in the pulse thrumming in her throat as his fingers trail down. He’s not the only one who needs this.

And maybe that does something for him. To know that, he’s holding her as much as she’s holding him. Like gravity, or magnetic force. A law of nature. Immovable. Inevitable. Like Nat and Mac falling out over fears for each other, and making up and falling into bed. Like Deacon coming here and their house becoming his, too. Like falling in love with them. It was always bound to happen, no matter what else would.

Like the two of them loving him, too. 

Natasha shudders. She slides just enough that his cock rubs against her inner thigh. A needy whimper plays between the wet click of their lips.

Yeah, that  _ really _ does something for him.

Abruptly, those sexy sounds dissolve into shaking laughter. Natasha’s mouth drags away, along with the rest of her. MacCready yanks, determinedly, on her belt. 

“Bed,” he insists, riled and ruffled. Deacon rakes eyes over him, bare-chested, short at least two of those belts that always pose a steep wall to getting the rest of him naked. Mac loops an arm around Nat’s waist, soaking in Deacon staring while Deacon’s soaking his eyes over lean muscle. A war wages on MacCready’s face, a duel of smug self-satisfaction and impatience. Incredibly horny impatience. 

The sudden grip on his belt loops tells him which wins.

“Bed.  _ Now _ .”

____________________________

  
  


“Fuck,” MacCready grunts, fumbling with the buckle on Natasha’s belt.   
  
Two steps into the swear zone and Mac’s already letting them fly. Nat rolls her eyes, but the snark is silky soft. “There are literally  _ bullets _ in the way of us getting you naked. Think you can handle a belt buckle --  _ mmm. _ ”

He handled it. The belt coils to the bedroom floor, next to the shirt Deacon’s shucked off. Now, MacCready’s hands are on Natasha. On her hips, pushing them back against the wall. On her jeans, just long enough to pull her legs free and kick the offending garment aside. On her bare thighs, gripping tight enough to get her to gasp his name. It’s nothing to the sound she makes when MacCready hitches up her thigh and reels her to his hips. His hands fill with her ass, clenching tighter in time with the grind of his hips as their bodies align.

Deacon feels the curl of Mac’s knowing smile in the throb of his dick. It’s a hazy look MacCready gives him, with his blue eyes hungry and his hair already in disarray. It’s a promise. A preview. And a damn good show.

“Are we still mad at each other, Bobby?” Nat pants, arms twined on his neck, lips to his throat.

“Furious,” he answers, gentle as the stroke of his thumb on her cheek, as the slow kiss they sink into. He lets her leg sink down, too, pinning her between his body and the wall.

Deacon draws towards them, losing his jeans as he goes. One little brush of lips to the back of Mac’s neck is enough to make him quiver. Deacon plays light kisses down the line of Mac’s spine, tasting each tremor he raises as he goes. He lets out a shaky breath, sliding hands from the warmth of Natasha’s naked thighs to MacCready’s, still stuck in scratchy pants with too many pouches and pockets. 

MacCready grips Deacon’s wrist suddenly, pulling it tighter to his waist in the same motion he rolls to grind against Natasha. It’s Natasha’s needy sounds raising sweet static on his skin. But they may as well be MacCready’s. Between them, Mac shifts and moans and reels them tighter. Like he can’t get close enough. Like they’re the air he breathes.

Yeah, he knows that feeling. That stifling, sweltering heat that begs for bare skin. And these damn cargo pants are  _ not _ helping the cause. Deacon swallows hard, closing his eyes for a breath while his dick digs against Mac’s ass. It takes a moment of concentrated effort to force himself to shift and fit his hand in between MacCready and Natasha.

Oh,  _ fuck. _

His bid for freeing MacCready of his belt stops where it starts: between the hot,  _ wet _ give of Natasha’s pussy and the rigid outline of MacCready’s cock. A twist of fate which, in retrospect, Deacon should’ve seen coming. Deacon coaxes the shudders in Natasha’s thighs, teasing at the thin fabric forming the only barrier between the glide of his fingers and the place she’s desperate for him to touch. Desperate is the right word for the sound she’s making now. 

But MacCready’s worse. One grip, one stroke and he’s bucking against Deacon’s palm, whining against the contact. Deacon spares sloppy, breathless kisses down MacCready’s shoulders, as if paying attention to any other part of that man would  _ clear _ his head instead of leaving it hungrier. Another plan doomed to fail from the start. 

Natasha’s eyes flutter open, half-lidded. There's a rosy glow on her face that spreads warmth through Deacon’s chest. She follows through where he failed, pressing past his hand to tug halfheartedly at MacCready’s belt. “You gonna help a girl out, Dee, or do I gotta spring him out of jail myself?”

MacCready scoffs, a little pouty puff against her neck. Retribution comes in the form of his hands cupping her tits, and his teeth nipping the curve of her shoulder. Eyes open, MacCready soothes it over with a lazy, wet suck. Natasha sighs contentedly, fingers forgetting the belt. Thwarted again.

“You’re not fair,” Deacon chides, filling MacCready’s ear with a husky undertone. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mac murmurs with a tickle of roughness in the back of his throat. The one that feels like velvet. 

“All that talk about getting us in here,” Deacon drags his lips over Bobby’s earlobe, relishing the feel of his muscles tensing taut beneath the touch. “Thought we were getting a show. Turns out it’s just talk.”

“We don’t always get what’s fair,” MacCready answers hoarsely. That velvet’s been brushed back the wrong way. Deacon recoils.

Underneath the soft pant of breath and longing looks and hungry touches, it’s still there. The sting with the sweet. MacCready’s fingers weave through his, but Deacon feels that lingering strain on his face more than the reassuring squeeze of their hands.

It’s  _ not _ fair.

It’s not fair that if Deacon stops touching them, if he thinks too long, and he blinks, he sees it all unfold again like some sort of sick encore to a tragedy already played out. Losing your lover is a classic. But the sequel ups the ante. Doubles it, even. 

It isn’t fair that certain, distinct grief is etched on all their bones. A few different finishes, sure, but in the marrow, it’s the same. They give their bodies to each other now like ropes, so they can all hang on. Because sometimes Bobby screams in his sleep and Nat cries in hers and Deacon falls rigid like he’s laying in a casket. Until the touch and taste of each other brings them back home. They need that edge, that grip, and that give so they can pull themselves out of it and back to each other. 

Deacon finds it, now, while MacCready shrugs from his shirt and wraps his arms around him, folding him in until skin meets skin. He shivers. MacCready kneads the knots in his shoulders, watching him with that uncanny keenness that always catches him. Catches him by surprise. Catches him staring. Catches him in a lie. Catches what he can’t say. Sniper’s sight. It’s really something. Something else unfair.

Like how they’re so damn beautiful, slinking over him and each other in faint light leaking in from the window. It bathes their bodies silver, and when they move, it’s like a pre-war picture show. Skin painted on skin in the dark, motion images Deacon wants to capture in every blink. But they’re only memories. Something imperfect trying to keep something perfect from fading away.

It isn’t fair that by doom or decay, one of them might survive when the others won’t. It isn’t fair that when Nat smiles he feels like a cloud drifting by and when Mac laughs it’s the same kind of warmth he gets from sitting near a fire and one day he might see them die and have to live with it. It isn’t fair that any of them would have to  _ live _ with it.

“Hey,” Mac breathes. It tickles Deacon’s neck, just like the wandering fingers that play with the edge of his briefs. Mac leans forward. Deacon’s lips part, but MacCready stops short, letting their foreheads rest against each other while they share a shallow breath. Deacon feels another sting as MacCready’s eyes pierce through his. 

“Come back here,” Mac whispers, hovering for half a second. He tilts into a kiss that aches as it deepens. Deacon stutters a low moan. That ache unfurls beneath the slow, sweet trace of MacCready’s tongue over his. It melts and dissipates, giving way to an electric thrill beneath his skin.

It hurts. It still hurts. It’ll hurt tomorrow, when they wake up tangled. Set in like a sore bruise. Scars for the words that left them. Words they can’t take back. Deacon wouldn’t, if he could. 

But he knows every freckle, every other mark and mar on Natasha and MacCready. Even the ones skin doesn’t show. For every scar, there’s a salve. To help it fade. To make them forget. To make Deacon forget, for just a little while, that these bodies burning against his hands could’ve been anything but warm.

MacCready laughs against the groan Deacon sinks between them. Natasha’s wound her arms through from behind MacCready. She can’t see over Mac’s shoulder, so she finds her way through feel. It’s familiar terrain that she’s traversing a little  _ too _ well. In one short, firm stroke of his cock, she wrings a shudder and a gasp out of Deacon. Too soon, Nat abandons him. He leans forward to find her again. His briefs brush the back of her palm, now occupied elsewhere. Deacon hears a clink of metal followed by a crumple of fabric. 

Deacon opens his eyes. Mac’s pants and associated paraphernalia pile at his feet. No more scratchy linen. No more band of .308s. No more pockets and pouches. Just bare legs and briefs. Natasha winks from around MacCready’s arm. Mission accomplished.

Mac sighs fondly. “What are we gonna do with you, killer?” He guides her between them by the shoulders, scowling while he thumbs at the fabric of her shirt. Deacon sniffs a quiet laugh. Hypocrite.

Nat obliges to his insistent tug by lifting her arms while he shifts it up and off. Deacon groans appreciatively, a sound Mac mirrors as Natasha arches into his touch and his hands roam across the liberated flex of muscle on her stomach. Deacon slinks forward, dragging his fingertips in a path of shivers up her body until they trail to the bra strap around her back. Their eyes latch as the one around her comes undone. 

That's another symmetry he’s dying to see. Her coming undone.    
  
That look she gives him says  _ please _ , like the delicate circles she draws with her fingers on the back of Deacon’s neck.  _ Please _ , in every little pant of breath pushing from her swollen lips.  _ Please, _ in the taste of every sound that rolls on his tongue as it slips over hers.  _ Please, _ in the fingers that claw on Deacon’s shoulders while he and MacCready play with her tits. 

“You’re nothing but trouble,” MacCready purrs in her ear. His hand slinks down, massaging at her hip and thigh, before dropping lower. Deacon feels his knees buckle at the sudden brush of that same hand, slipping beneath the band of elastic and---

God, that’s good. Deacon groans, rocking slightly into MacCready’s grip. It’s a detour, Deacon knows. MacCready recedes, pulling the fabric down as he goes, leaving Deacon’s cock bare to the air. 

He doesn’t need to look, he can  _ hear  _ what happens next. Still, it’s so pretty to watch. Underneath Nat’s sudden, trembling gasp, is the slick sound of MacCready fucking her with his finger. 

MacCready's toying with her, circling with just a fingertip, dipping in enough to make her hiss before retreating. Add that to the list of things unfair. Another night, Deacon might have played along. Push and pull her on that precipice of pleasure, and marvel at the view. It’s a good one. Her body arches, hands shifting to wrap around Bobby’s neck. Natasha juts her hips forward, flustered and frustrated. 

Deacon’s eyes trail to the flex in MacCready’s forearm to where he slips inside of her. His hands follow after, leaving her breasts in favor of her hips where he pins her tighter to MacCready.

"This guy bothering you?” Deacon asks, letting the whisper sink in her ear while his teeth tug at the lobe. 

“Not  _ enough _ ,” she sighs.

“I can help with that.”

Mac’s eyes meet his, dark and steeped in smugness. “You need something, Songbird,” he drawls in her other ear, “just say the word.”

“Bobby, don’t tease me tonight, I--  _ uh. _ ”

MacCready pulls out when Deacon slides his finger in. Only for a few seconds, but deeper than MacCready ventured. She’s  _ wet _ , god, she’s wet. It draws a slew of fresh, breathy noise from her lips when he slips out. And a fresh, thrum of arousal through Deacon’s cock. MacCready fills her again. For a few moments, they coax her open that way, trading her between them, and stealing kisses over her shoulder.

“The….the bed,” Nat pants. “The bed is right…right...”

MacCready smirks against her neck, rolling a nipple between his thumb and index. “Right there?”

MacCready slips in a second finger. Natasha’s stutters melt into wordless, pleasured hums. She gropes at Deacon for purchase. She finds it with her teeth along his collarbone, a tight grip to his shoulder, and her other hand wrapping around his cock. Those long, languid strokes send him shudders of his own. 

“It’s too far, baby,” Deacon whispers. “You’re not gonna make it.”

Deacon tangles a hand through her hair, gently peeling her from his chest and sinking his lips back to hers. Her fingers turn to knuckles on his shoulder. No more teasing. MacCready ups the tempo. Her breath hitches to match it. 

“You said both of us,” she says, voice husky. “Is that how you want it?”

Yes, yes.  _ God _ , yes. 

It’s not a want so much as a need. Nothing he thought to verbalize before now, but something he understood the second Bobby kissed him in the living room. Something that’s caught Mac’s attention now, as blue eyes fix Deacon in a keen, captivated gaze.

“Why don’t you paint her a picture, Dee?”

She wants it. Deacon tastes it, burning against his lips in a rolling swallow down her throat. It was one of the first secrets her body gave away to him before words could. Songbird likes to hear a verse back sometimes. Her favorites are bedroom hymns.

Deacon leans to her ear while they hold her between, while Mac’s thumb circles around her clit and his fingers bend where she needs them. 

“First, you’re gonna come all over Bobby’s hands. You look so,  _ so _ good, like that.”

Mac hums approvingly. “Mmm. He’s right. And it’s gonna feel even better, gorgeous.”   
  
Nat leans back against MacCready, soaking in Deacon’s face with the words. Hanging off of every one of them. 

“Then he’s gonna take those fingers you got so wet for him and fuck me with them, too.”

A wide grin spreads on Nat’s face, slow and sweet like syrup. “ _ That’s _ pretty.”

So is the look Mac’s giving him now, flooded with want and need and promise. 

“Saved the prettiest for last,” Deacon murmurs. “Me in you, and him in me.”

Nat mouths at words she can’t manage. She pours out the only ones she can. “I’m... _ mmm _ .”

“I got you,” Mac near-growls the words in her ear, but it’s tender. Soft in a way that’s fierce. His eyes flicker to Deacon over her shoulder. Mac asks the question she can’t, for himself as much as her.

“Which way?”

A snicker weaves through the breathless noise of Nat’s mounting pleasure. She pumps his dick with a sudden fervor. Deacon grounds the words out between his teeth.

“Want your arms around me. Want to see the look on her face.”

Holding each other. That’s how he wants it. Wound so deep and tightly they come undone altogether.

Natasha’s cries pitch and fracture. She rolls against MacCready’s hand, forgetting the one she has around Deacon. Forgetting to breathe, for just a second, until her gasps ripple through her fast and staggering. The grip on Deacon’s shoulder pinches tight with the twist on her face.

And then, all at once, it softens. Natasha releases Deacon when she finds hers, burying a chorus of Mac’s name against Deacon’s chest. Deacon drags delicate fingers across her thighs, coaxing out each lingering shiver. When her breath falls deep and even again, MacCready tilts her back so he can kiss her, drinking in the last little sighs. Deacon leaves them wound together, parting with one last ticklish touch to her stomach that sprouts a hum of laughter in its wake.

Deacon meanders to the nightstand on his side of the bed, pawing through the sparse contents of the drawer for the bottle rolled to the back. Whispers he can’t quite catch snag his attention. Mac’s arms wrap around Nat, her bare feet propped on top of his, almost like they’re dancing. They sway forward slow, heads tilted nose-to-nose, until the backs of Nat’s legs hit the bed. Deacon watches, taken by the almost ethereal half-light pouring down their silhouettes in the dark, bathing the bend of arms and muscles and lips and hips. Deacon blinks, and MacCready nudges her unceremoniously to the mattress. Nat lands with a huff and giggle. 

She drops her head back, tangled hair tumbling down her naked shoulders. “Need some help with that, handsome?”

Right. The lube. 

Which is sort of hard to focus on when MacCready’s wearing that sultry hint of half-smile and slinking his briefs to the floor. Harder still, when Nat leans forward on her stomach, propped just right so Deacon can see the slope of her breasts, and sucks MacCready’s bare cock between her lips. It leaves her with a lewd  _ pop _ .

“You’re gonna have a good time, Dee,” she says, another wet-lipped vow that aches in dick as he tugs it free from his briefs. 

MacCready and his wandering hands find their way to Deacon. Mac drags them warm and coarse down Deacon’s thighs, teasing tantalizingly close to his cock, but not close enough. Hot breath billows on Deacon’s neck. Hotter, smoother skin grazes his ass. Deacon grounds out a groan, feeling the weight of MacCready’s dick laid against him.

“Let me take care of that.” Mac takes the bottle, but he sets it aside on the set of drawers. Instead, he slinks open-mouthed kisses down Deacon’s neck that leave him dizzy. Mac gropes his ass, hard. Deacon almost thanks him on the hiss that leaks from his lips. Something to steel himself, to brace against. To keep this from being over too soon.

And then a pair of fingers trail between. Deacon feels them, slick and wet and  _ dripping.  _ Arousal, sharp like a shock, pulses through him. MacCready’s fingers circle him slowly.  _ Lazily.  _   
  
“You know, for someone with a serious lack of patience, Bobby, you always find endless time to play the tease.”

Mac’s other hand closes around Deacon’s cock. Deacon swallows the moan that bobs in his throat, head swimming while Mac strokes him. 

“Not teasing,” MacCready rasps.

Oh --- “ _ Fuck _ .”

MacCready curls a finger inside of him. That one little motion kicks the air from Deacon’s lungs a current through his body. Everything shudders and tenses. MacCready moves with practiced precision, working him slow and shallow until the tension melts to pleasure. Until,  _ finally _ , deeper. Deacon angles back with a groan. Too soon, Mac withdraws, leaving him panting with his legs spread apart and his hands clutching the bed for stability.

Smiling, cat-like, MacCready pops the lid on the lube. Deacon sees it drizzle over Mac’s already glistening fingers.

“Yeah, that was all _ her _ just now,” Mac says. “You’re gonna have a good time, Dee.”

The repeated mantra feels more like a prayer. Something to get on his knees for. So he does, on the bed, saddled over Natasha laying on her back beneath him. Another sizzle of anticipation tingles over Deacon’s skin. She watches them with rapt attention, one hand tucked beneath her head, the other circling leisurely over her clit. That hand winds around his cock instead when he comes within reach, coating it with her own slickness and inspiring a cracked noise from his throat he can’t quite stifle. 

The bed dips behind him with Mac’s weight. Bobby’s hands clamp back around his waist. He sucks kisses down Deacon’s spine, planting bruises as he goes. It’s not often Deacon lets him, but tonight, he arches into each and every one.

Those nips and marks are proof. When he wakes up from the nightmares about fresh hurts and fresher graves, the ones that are sure to come for him, Deacon wants to ache with the evidence that they lived and loved and fucked on this bed. That they’re here, they’re his, they’re  _ his _ , and they’re touching him.

“ _ Bobby _ .” Somewhere, there’s a Deacon that’s embarrassed at how desperate that sounds. But any thought of him is buried when Mac slips his finger back inside of him, and all he feels is a warm twist of heat spreading through his every inch. 

It’s MacCready’s palm that kisses Deacon’s tailbone now, shoving forward firmly. “We’re gonna make you feel _ so _ good.  _ You’re _ gonna feel so good.” Deacon drops down to his elbows, hovering over Nat. 

Nat’s fingernails scratch, just sharp enough to be sweet, in patterns on his shoulder blades. MacCready fingers him, steadily pumping deeper as his body opens to the touch. Deacon feels himself clenching, eager for more, but too breathless to say it. No need. Those hands have learned him well. He slips a second finger inside, and not long after, a third, teasing out electric pleasure from his muscles. Until his fingers graze against that one, perfect spot inside of him and Deacon tenses rigid. 

Nat takes that broken sound that stutters out of him, letting it roll against her tongue while she kisses away what little breath he has left. Deacon’s cock jerks, almost painful between his legs. He needs it. Now. Her and him and  _ them _ .    
  
Deacon’s knees shift, nudging Nat’s thighs to part. The change in angle sprouts a new shockwave of sensation from the place where Mac thrusts into him. With one last crook of his finger where it feels best, Mac withdraws. Deacon leans back instinctively, body twitching in the wake of the lost contact. 

He finds his focus as Nat spreads readily beneath him, anticipation brimming in her eyes. Deacon’s hands sprawl over her lithe figure, pinching at hardened nipples, slipping delicately over the ripples of old scars, and massaging tenderly down the creases of her hips. He circles a finger around her pussy once, enough to draw out a sharp whimper. Deacon guides her legs up and aside, so that her ankles bump against his hips. He pauses, eyes flickering up to hers. 

“I want you,” she whispers.

Deacon sinks forward on the mattress, and sinks inside of Natasha. 

They settle like that for a moment, twin breaths panting to the same, rapid tempo. Deacon shifts back slightly before pushing into her more further. Nat wraps him in tightly. So,  _ so _ tightly. Every twinge through her body, every pulse of pleasure is one they share. Deacon feels it, feels her,  _ hears _ her. 

“Mm, feels so _fucking_ good, Dee.” Songbird’s singing his favorites. Deacon drinks them in, sucking those half-muted murmurs from her lower lip. 

Nat whines as he eases back once more, jutting up her hips to take him deeper. She’s placated when he fills her fully, again. They find the rhythm that keeps her writhing in the sheets, but sets a levy against the waves of pleasure that have his breath crashing in his chest and threaten to tug him under. A sweet way to go. One of the best. But there’s a part two to this he wants far, far too much to let it have him now. 

Another set of knees nudges against Deacon’s legs. It sends a thrill of arousal through him, feeling those hands trace over his chest, gripping at his thighs. They rest there, briefly, before shifting forward and snagging Nat’s hand from where it fists in the sheets. MacCready threads his fingers through hers, and fixes them both to Deacon’s leg. Mac’s other hand is out of sight. Deacon doesn’t feel it. He feels MacCready, rigid and slick and brushing against his ass. He feels--

Flickers of lightning all over his body. Nat  _ clenching _ around his cock. And MacCready’s dick, hard and thick and inside of him. 

Deacon stills, chasing after his ragged breath. It’s not the first time they’ve been together this way. Not the first time they’ve had him like this. But it staggers him all the same.

In other burning nights, it’s been MacCready pinned and moaning between Deacon’s palms and Natasha’s legs. In whispers that bend a flash of heat in his belly as he thinks of them, Nat’s begged for it to be her. That one took some practice, but they got her there. A labor of love in so many senses.

“You okay?” Mac asks gently.

‘Okay’ doesn’t hold a candle to it. Deacon doesn’t know words that could. Doesn’t know if he can speak for the moment, anyway. 

“We’ll give you a minute,” Natasha murmurs, squeezing the hand on Deacon’s thigh that’s holding Mac’s. 

“How’s he feel, angel?”

“ _ Amazing. _ What about your end?”

“Fucking great.”

Deacon coughs a laugh that earns him another affectionate squeeze from their joined hands. “If you two high-five, I’m leaving.”

“Hey, he’s alive!” Nat snickers.

Deacons rocks forward slightly, melting that laughter into a long, low moan. The shift slides Mac inside of him just so. Deacon gasps. Songbird’s not going to be the noisy one tonight. 

“Too much?” Mac asks hesitantly.

“Not enough,” Deacon chides, picking up pace again as he thrusts forward into Nat and back against Mac. 

Nat’s eyes flutter shut while her hand trails back to her clit. MacCready’s hands roam over Deacon’s shoulders, sliding down his sides, rubbing tenderly against his back, knuckling fingers down his chest. Lips turn to teeth on his back when Bobby’s hands come to play at the base of Deacon’s cock, curving over the shape of Deacon and Nat fucking underneath him. There’s a growl buried between those teeth and Deacon’s skin.

But MacCready’s other motions stay far too tentative. Deacon groans and slams back against his hips. 

“F-Fuck,” MacCready stammers out.

Bobby doesn’t need to be told twice. Deacon feels his ass smack against Mac’s skin as he slides in deeper. Harder. Again, again, in slick repetition. Until Deacon’s bent down to his elbows again, yielding to MacCready’s binding grip and rapid pace. Yielding to the feel of Mac filling him, the feel of every one of MacCready’s thrusts driving Deacon deeper into Natasha.

It’s his favorite part of this. Knowing that the harder MacCready fucks him, the more she feels Deacon fucking her, too. Knowing that even as Deacon’s between them, every roll of MacCready’s hips carries straight through Deacon and into her.    
  
“Fuck, Bobby, that’s  _ good _ ,” Deacon pants.

“So,  _ so _ good,” Nat croons.

It’s not. It’s  _ perfect _ . So perfect, it makes him feel weak. Just like the pussy that’s gripping him with every thrust. Deacon leans forward further, sucking softly at the crook of Nat’s neck. MacCready’s arms wind around his chest. He could lose himself here. Lose himself between these bodies, buried right between. 

He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not while the drag of Mac’s cock and flex of Nat’s cunt send him towards a weightless spiral. Not while, underneath the noise of labored breath and murmured sweetness he can hear that wet, hot glide between the three of them.

“God, Deacon.” Mac’s not long behind. Deacon knows the strain of his own name in MacCready’s throat, feels it like fibers fraying thin. Only a matter of time before he snaps entirely.

Natasha mirrors that desperate rhythm in the swipe of her fingers circling her clit. Deacon feels her body flex and wind beneath him while she climbs closer to climax. Not close enough. When they breach that edge, he wants her there, too. Deacon sinks forward enough to lap her lips between his, slipping in his tongue when her moans morph to cries. 

All she needed was a little push. Now, she’s the one who pulls them with her. Natasha cuts abruptly silent while she strains, open-mouthed and shuddering. 

MacCready utters a broken growl. “You do her so good, Dee.”

Natasha answers for him, in the half-strangled cry that peels out of her. Tremors of hot, gripping pleasure course through her and bind around Deacon. Deacon gasps, head dropping to her shoulder while he fucks her through the rippling aftershocks. Even Mac’s hands, now knuckled on his thighs, aren’t enough to ground him against the lash of pleasure that’s snapping in his body like a rubber band. 

“Bobby, I’m so close. Let me feel you. I wanna feel you.” Deacon pants. 

The levies are shattered, and Mac’s thrusts grow frantic, erratic. A few more, and Deacon feels his body give way. Natasha drags nails down his neck while he fills her, soaking in the spill of Bobby’s name dripping off Deacon’s lips as he comes. MacCready follows after, coming hard and warm and heavy into Deacon. 

Their momentum gradually slows to a stop. Mac folds over, the familiar, comforting heat of his chest covering Deacon’s back. A pounding heartbeat drums on his shoulder, parallel to Deacon’s still thundering against his ribs. For a few, serene moments, Deacon fades into the feel of warm breath and warmer skin surrounding him. 

A gentle kiss to his temple clears the heady fog enough for him to blink his eyes open. Nat smiles affectionately, with just the hint of reproach. “You two are squishing me.”

“You like it,” Mac answers tiredly.

“I like breathing.”

“I like you breathing,” Deacon concedes, shifting up and back. Mac follows suit with groggy mumble. He presses a quick, but tender kiss along Deacon’s jaw, bracing a hand along Deacon’s hip before slowly drawing out of him. Deacon twitches at the feel of it, too sharp, too sensitive, and then suddenly empty. Hissing slightly, he slinks back, receding from Nat. The afterglow still simmers on his skin, and in the rogue pulses through his muscles that echo, faintly, those indescribable feelings. 

Deacon throws his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the spreading soreness. There’s just a hint of it, now. It’ll be worse in the morning. Same with the spattering of hickeys, blooming red like roses among his freckles. The thought staves off the other, less friendly feelings crawling in. Feelings that are raw and vacant and bare.

Nat fishes a pair of cloths from the bedside drawer, tossing one to Deacon and swiping another between her legs. Mac pulls the water bucket from the corner. Familiar rituals as they drift out of haze of sex and fade into the fog of sleep.

Hopefully. Maybe.

Settling behind him on the bed, Nat loops her arms around Deacon. “You have fun?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Mmhm,” she sighs, nuzzling against the back of his shoulder.

MacCready wrings out another cloth, letting the excess water run off into the bucket.

“You were all about the bed, and then you wouldn’t let me get to it,” Nat comments, eyeing him under an arched brow.

“I’m about you having a good time,” Mac shrugs, expression cheeky. He slips a quick kiss to her cheek. “No need to pause on a good thing.” 

The smugness fades when his eyes fall on Deacon, and his hands follow suit. Deacon shifts from the mattress under Mac’s steering, shivering when Mac drags the cool, roughness of the cloth over his skin.

“You’re a mess,” Mac rasps in his ear.

“You made me one,” Deacon murmurs back, weaker than he means to.

\------------------

The sun paints them golden by the time Deacon feels life in his bones again. It slants in from the gaps in the curtains, casting shadows off the sinewy muscle of MacCready’s chest and glinting amber in the brown of his hair. With his nose to MacCready’s neck, Deacon traces scars he can’t see, but can follow all the same. He maps the roads of puckered skin and ragged weylines by his fingertips until Mac’s hand comes to wrap around his. He squeezes briefly, then shifts in the sheets until they lay chest-to-chest, face to face, and weary eyes meet tired ones. 

It’s no surprise Mac’s awake when Deacon knows he didn’t sleep at all. Twitchy and turning all night through. Unsettled. Unsoothed. Unable to unsee that almost, nearly. All the while, Deacon lay stiff as a corpse, even with their arms strewn over him and his over them. 

Natasha hums soft on Deacon’s spine, curled knees to chest against Deacon’s back. No Russian nothings last night. Silent, so far as he could tell from the depths of the hole he dug in his own head.

Mac props himself up on an arm, peering over. The look on his face sparks a twinge of worry. Deacon leans, careful not to shift her, and follows the rub of MacCready’s thumb down her cheek. Sunlight glimmers off of the dried trails painted down it. She found the sleep they couldn’t, but she paid for it in tears. 

A mess. All of them. One not so easy to wash away. 

Deacon soothes a hand through the tangles of her hair, slipping onto his back and sliding an arm around them both. There’s a glimmer there in the snarled auburn that he’s never noticed before. A spark of silver, just one strand. MacCready lays his cheek to Deacon’s chest, puffing out a little breath of air as he does.

“We can’t do so much risky crap anymore,” Mac sighs. He sounds so soft and small, it scares him. Scares him that, of all people,  _ Mac _ is the one saying it. Deacon tugs him in tighter. As if tighter could choke out that fear lurking underneath the honey-colored glow of morning.

“Gonna take a rain check on that settlement run for Preston,” Mac murmurs. “You should stay home for a bit, too. I think she needs it.”

_ How long _ , he wonders, but he doesn’t ask. Maybe a week, maybe forever. Maybe that was the last run they’ll ever do. Deacon knows it’s not. It’s a matter of time before they shake off these fears that make them feel frail. Until another almost. Until the  _ real _ last run together.

Or…

Maybe, this  _ was _ the last one. Maybe his days will be filled with turning the earth in his hands and hands on the two of them, tangled up in their hair as it turns gray.

“I’ll stay,” Deacon promises.

Maybe they’ll hang it all up. Succumb to domestic decay. Give themselves over to a slow, sweet death. One they’ll all get to watch, day by day, year over year.

Deacon could live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> As I was writing this, with the premise of frantic sex after a near death experience in mind, I was sure this was going to be more along the lines of throw-them-on-the bed or against a wall and maybe a little rough and tumble. And sure, it is, in parts. But as I got into drafting, they kept being so tender with each other. And I got to realizing that, maybe witnessing the fragility of life and love and what they’ve built shook that out of them, and these moments of tenderness ended up seeming really fitting to me. 
> 
> All that said, this is my first real smut. So, uh, be gentle with me ;)
> 
> Birth control and talking about it is so important! Along with other safe sex things. For the purposes of this, assume Nat has an IUD. And that the boys know that. If that doesn’t jive with your wasteland realism, well, I’m sorry. I guess maybe her tubes are tied in your version, then. 
> 
> I have something else steamy in the works for these three that’s got a much lighter tone to it. Not sure yet what it will all entail, but you can expect that later in February.
> 
> If you liked and enjoyed, feel free to feed the write a kudos or a comment. There's more of these three in my Reclamations series, and more of Mac and Nat in my longfic, Bring the Gasoline. If you feel like saying hey, I'm @adventuresofmeghatron on Tumblr. Thank you so much for reading <3


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